


Departing From Course

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-27
Updated: 2010-03-27
Packaged: 2019-06-13 03:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15355479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: Jim gets some visitors at Christmas





	Departing From Course

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Elaine, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Artifact Storage Room 3](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Artifact_Storage_Room_3) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Artifact Storage Room 3’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/artifactstorageroom3/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Written for Arianna for the 2009 TS Secret Santa.
> 
> Takes place about a week after Night Shift. The dialogue from that episode was written by Richard Maxwell.

“Look, I’m just saying,” Blair was saying as Jim pushed the door to the loft open, “that going to the mall at Christmas time would be a great way to test your control over your senses—“

“Forget it, Sandburg,” Jim interrupted him. “All that noise, all those smells, the flashing lights – there’s no way I’m getting within a mile of that place if I can help it.” He hung up his coat and slung his shoulder holster on the hook next to it. Heading into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and briefly contemplated a beer, then opted for water instead. His head was pounding, thanks to a two-hour meeting with Simon and Chief Warren in the latter’s office. He was never going to get the smell of stale, burning coffee out of his sinuses. 

“But, Jim, don’t you see, we can _use_ that,” Blair said enthusiastically, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “It’s the perfect environment to help you practice isolating and locating specific sensations. And you can get a little shopping done at the same time.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a Christmas-spirit kind of guy.”

“Okay, okay, forget the Christmas angle. I just think you need to keep sharp, you know? And this—“

“Don’t tell me what I need,” Jim snapped.

Blair stopped bouncing and his expression flattened out into smooth disinterest. “Okay,” he said coolly, “no problem.” He shouldered his backpack and headed into his room. 

Annoyed, Jim finished his water and chucked the bottle into the recycling bin, then went to take a shower.

The ache in his head slowly receded as he stood under the hot, pounding spray, but it couldn’t do anything to ease the ache in his heart. Things seemed to have changed between him and Blair, fundamentally, since their blowup a week ago, and he wasn’t sure what to do to get them back to where they had been.

He’d apologized for reading the first chapter of Blair’s dissertation. He’d been wrong, he knew it – Blair had outright asked him not to read it, after all. And it seemed that Blair had accepted his apology. So everything’s fine, life goes back to normal, right? 

Except now, every time Blair mentioned his senses, those phrases started popping into Jim’s head. _Territorially threatened to the point of paranoia. Fear of intimacy. Most of subject’s life choices are fear-based._ He couldn’t stop wondering if Blair was really concerned about him, Jim Ellison, his supposed friend, or was he thinking about which chapter of the diss Jim’s latest crisis would fit into? When he suggested Jim try something, was it because he thought it would help, or was it because he was thinking about how good it would sound on Oprah?

Maybe Blair had known that he wouldn’t let Blair destroy his notes. Maybe he’d counted on that. Because, on the surface, nothing had really changed, had it? Blair was still living in the loft, still working with Jim, and still writing his dissertation. 

Grimly, he shut off the water and grabbed a towel from the bar. His headache was back, full force, thanks to the thoughts spinning through his head.

So what if Blair was still researching him? He didn’t have to play along, did he? He didn’t need Blair’s help with the senses. He had them under control, now, and he could think of plenty of different ways to use them himself, thank you very much. He wasn’t stupid. 

Come to think of it, maybe he didn’t want things to go back to normal. Maybe it was time for this whole thing to end. Hadn’t Blair said he had enough data? Maybe it was time for them to part ways, time the kid got his own place. It was nice having a roommate, sure, but he wouldn’t mind getting some of his privacy back. 

He wrapped the towel around his waist, his mind made up. After the holidays, he’d tell Blair to start looking for another place to live. And he’d start shutting him down on the senses. Once he wasn’t getting any new data, he’d be looking for greener pastures, Jim was sure. 

Blair was cooking hamburgers when he came out of the bathroom. “Dinner in five!” Blair called out, and Jim grunted acknowledgement as he went up the stairs. 

The meal was quiet. Blair tried to make small talk and Jim tried to read the paper. He was successful at fending off conversation until they were doing the dishes and Blair asked what the plans were for Christmas Day.

“I’m working, Chief,” Jim replied. “I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I... I just thought... it’s a holiday, man. It’s a time for family.”

“Which is why I’m working – so the cops with family can go and celebrate with them.”

“But what about your dad and Steven? What about Sally?”

“Sally goes to see her family around this time every year. Steven’s on a business trip, and Dad’s up at his cabin. We’ve never really been big on the family Christmas thing.”

“Oh.” Blair fell quiet, drying the frying pan. 

They were silent for a while, then Jim said, “I thought Naomi was coming into town.”

“She was, but then she found out about a retreat out in Taos. It’s with this guy she’s really wanted to see for a while – he carries around this crystal skull and channels ancient Mayan wisdom—“

Jim held up a hand to stop him. “TMI, Chief.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Blair looked a little sheepish. “Anyway, she called me to ask if it was okay if she visited later in the year.” He glanced up at Jim. “She’s never paid attention to organized holidays, anyway. Every day’s a celebration to her. You might as well celebrate Christmas in July.” He was smiling, Jim saw, but there was a note of sadness in his voice. 

Jim didn’t say anything, and after a while Blair shrugged. “Oh, well. I’ll figure out something to do. Maybe I’ll go volunteer at the homeless shelter, or maybe there’s something going on at Rainier.” 

Guilt gnawed at Jim, but he shrugged it off. It wasn’t his fault Naomi was a flake and didn’t follow through on her promises. And it wasn’t his job to babysit her son. He didn’t even like the damned holiday. 

After the dishes were done he watched some TV – some kind of action movie, lots of explosions and guns firing. Blair made a face and eyed the remote, but when it became clear that he wasn’t going to get a chance to click over to the ultra-fascinating program on the mating calls of African storks, he retreated to his room and a stack of anthropology journals. Jim called a good night to him as he flicked the TV off and headed up to bed.

Ever since covert ops training, he’d been a light sleeper. You had to be able to wake at the slightest sound and be fully alert when you were in enemy territory. Which was how he knew, even before he had opened his eyes, that there was someone in his room.

He reached slowly for the gun he kept under his pillow and eased the safety off. Blinking a few times to help his sight adjust, he gathered himself, then sat up and trained his weapon on the shadowy figure next to his desk.

The shadow chuckled. “Going to shoot me, Slick?”

Jim’s hands went numb as recognition shot through him. “J-Jack?” he whispered.

The figure moved forward, pulling the chair out and sitting down, and now Jim could see that it was, in fact, Jack Pendergrast, exactly as Jim had seen him, seven years ago, on the last day of his life. Wearing the same dark suit, tie loosened; his grey hair neatly combed back; and giving Jim the same lopsided grin. 

“What the hell?” Jim murmured. “You’re dead.”

“Never said I wasn’t.”

Jim paused. His senses were telling him that Jack was really there... but that was impossible. He glanced around. No blue jungle, no black panther, so this wasn’t one of those Sentinel things. Could it be a dream? “So... you’re haunting me?”

“Well, not exactly....”

“Then why are you here?”

“You’re in serious trouble, Slick.”

“Right,” Jim drawled. 

“Hey, I told you before you oughta lose that attitude.” Jack looked angry. “I’m not kidding. You’re headed down a bad road, partner, and it’s going to end in misery.”

“For who?”

“For you and those you care about.” 

This was trying his patience. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re not paying attention, Slick, not to the things that really matter. I understand – I was the same way. I thought I knew everything; I had it all figured out. I was wrong. I didn’t listen, and... and I’m paying for that, now. I don’t want to see you go the same way.”

“Whatever.” He’d had enough of this. Why couldn’t dreams and visions and the like just be clear? Why did it always have to be innuendo and vague but dire warnings? He snapped the safety back on and slid his gun under his pillow. “This is a dream. You’re just a dream. You’re not really here.” Man, he didn’t know what Sandburg had put in those burgers, but he was going to find out and make sure he never did it again. 

Jack watched him for a moment, then shook his head, a sad expression on his face. “Too bad. I told ‘em this wouldn’t work, but....”

He didn’t deign to reply – wasn’t talking to yourself a bad sign? Surely talking to your dreams wasn’t any better – but instead turned his back on his imaginary former partner and tried to go to sleep.

“I’m gonna have a few friends stop by tonight. Maybe they can succeed where I didn’t. You should listen to them, Slick. Isn’t that what that guy told you to do? Start by listening to the hearts of others?”

Jim’s head snapped up and he looked around the room, but it was empty.

He punched the pillow a few times to get it into the right shape, then lay back down and closed his eyes. How did Jack?... no. No, it hadn’t been Jack, not really. Just a figment of his indigestion. And as for Jack’s parting shot, well, he had heard what Gabe had said, so the dream Jack in his head had known it. Simple.

His attempt to get back to sleep was seriously hindered, however, by a light that filled the room; a light so bright that he could see it even through his eyelids. Stubbornly, he kept his eyes closed, hoping that whatever burger-induced weirdness that was happening now would just stop if he didn’t pay any attention to it, but the light just got brighter and brighter, and finally he opened his eyes and sat up with a heavy sigh. “Okay, what now?”

There was a woman standing in the middle of his bedroom dressed all in white. At least he thought it was a woman – she seemed to be wearing a long dress or skirt, but her figure and her features were hard to make out, due to the shimmering veil of white-gold light that surrounded her. The shimmering veil that had prevented him from sleeping, Jim realized.

The woman held her hands out to him. “Come with me,” she said, her voice low and melodious.

The sarcastic comment he’d been about to make died on his lips. He felt oddly small in her presence; strangely compelled to do as she’d asked. Sliding out of bed, he pulled his gray robe on and then reached out and took her hands.

The bedroom around him grew blurry, and he felt a tightening in his gut, a tugging sensation that must be what it was like to be a fish and get caught on a hook. He almost dropped the woman’s hands, but she gripped back tightly. The part of his brain that wasn’t reeling in surprise noticed that her hands were warm and soft. 

Things snapped into focus, and Jim realized that they were standing in the foyer of his father’s house. It was night; the lights were off and the room was cloaked in shadows. And there was something... wrong about the place, too; something different, but Jim couldn’t put his finger on it.

William Ellison came out of the kitchen and walked across the foyer, heading for the living room, where, Jim could see, there was a fire burning in the fireplace. His dad had a glass in his hand that was nearly half full of something Jim was pretty sure was whiskey. 

“Jimmy, what are you doing down here?” his dad asked. 

Jim opened his mouth to say something – he wasn’t sure what; sorry, Dad, this strange glowing woman abducted me from my bedroom and brought me here? – but he was interrupted by the reply that came from the living room. 

“I just thought... it’s Christmas, Dad. I thought maybe she’d come back.”

Jim gaped at his younger self, dressed in frog pajamas, gangling, all knees and elbows, sitting on the loveseat and staring morosely out the window.

Now that he really took a look around, it was obvious that this William Ellison wasn’t the same William Ellison he’d rescued from a crazed killer several months ago. For one thing, he was wearing a shirt on which the size of the collar alone practically screamed “The Seventies”, not to mention the eye-blistering pattern. For another thing, his dad’s hair was thick and full and unmarked by gray. 

And there was snow on the ground, he saw, as he followed young Jimmy’s gaze out the window. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a white Christmas – oh, yes, he could. It had been when he was eight years old. A shiver slid down his back. Maybe this wasn’t a dream.

He spun around and glared at the glowing woman. “What’s going on here? What did you do?” 

“Watch,” the woman said, in that gentle voice. “Watch, and remember.”

Jim reached forward to grab his father’s arm, but his hand passed right through it. Alarmed, he looked back at his companion.

“They cannot hear or see you,” she replied calmly.

William strode forward and lowered himself carefully into one of the armchairs in front of the fire. “I’m afraid she’s not coming back, son,” he said, his voice sharp with bitterness. “Grace never was very good at thinking about other people.” He slurred his words slightly, and Jim realized, with an awareness he hadn’t had as a child, that his father was well on the way to getting completely blitzed. 

The bitterness, though, he did remember that. The bite in his dad’s voice whenever he talked about her. He remembered his confusion about his mom leaving, and the cold fear inside of him that someday his other parent would disappear, too; that one day he’d come home and it would just be him and Stevie, alone in the great empty house. 

He hadn’t been rebellious, then. Not yet. Then he’d been obedient, eager to please. He’d wanted to get good grades, do his chores, keep his room clean, try out for sports, all to make his dad proud of him, to convince him that he’d gotten the better end of the deal, that he hadn’t made a mistake sticking around. 

Jim swallowed, his throat tight, watching his younger self stare out the window, feeling his heart ache for that kid and the burdens he had carried. The fire popped and crackled, incongruously cheerful against the heavy sorrow in the room.

“Never depend on anyone, Jimmy.” The ice rattled against the glass as William took a drink. “It’s no good. They’ll let you down when you need them the most. Better to just rely on yourself.” He looked over at his son. “You understand me?”

Jim could see that the kid’s eyes were shadowed with a weight at odds with his years. “I understand, Dad,” the kid said quietly.

“Good. Now get to bed. Santa won’t come unless you’re asleep.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Dad.”

“Goodnight, son.”

Jim watched his younger self trudge up the stairs, feeling drained and sad. How many times had he heard that lecture from his dad? He couldn’t remember if this had been the first time, but the lesson had been repeated many times in the Ellison household. Over the years it had shifted, become more about the competition between him and Steven, but the underlying message had been the same. The only person you can count on is yourself. 

There was a gentle touch on his arm, and he looked down to see the woman standing next to him, taking his hand in hers. “We must return,” she murmured. Everything went blurry again, and then snapped into focus. They were back in the loft.

Jim sank onto the edge of his bed and ran his hands over his face wearily. He wasn’t sure what the point of that little trip down memory lane had been.

“Why?—“ he started to ask the mysterious woman, only to stop when he saw that the glimmering aura had lessened and he could see her face. She had elegant features; a long nose; high cheekbones; dark, curved brows. But she wore an expression of deep sorrow – her blue eyes swam with tears, and her full mouth trembled.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Jimmy. I was young, and naive and selfish.”

“Mom?” Jim stood, a strange mixture of apprehension and excitement churning in his gut.

“I didn’t think William would... I knew he’d be upset, but... I didn’t think he’d take it out on you boys.” She looked down at her hands, shaking her head sadly. “I... I hope you can forgive me someday, Jimmy. And I hope....” She raised her head and focused on his face, determination in every line of her features. “I have to go. Remember, Jimmy – trust is a miraculous gift. Don’t deny it.”

“Mom, wait—” He reached out, but the figure had vanished. The room was dark.

Grief washed through him, as bright and keen as sunlight. He took a deep breath and brushed his hand across his eyes roughly, fighting to maintain his composure. Water – maybe a glass of water would help.

The practical aspects of getting downstairs and getting a bottle of water from the fridge distanced him enough from his immediate emotions that he could think about what had just happened. Had that been a vision? Another one of those spiritual experiences that was supposed to teach him something? But why? What had been the purpose?

The questions circled each other in his head like sharks, and he felt his frustration building. He wished Blair was awake so he could talk to him about it. As much as he complained about the spiritual side of being a Sentinel, he had to admit that Blair usually had some good ideas about what it all meant and how to deal with it.

But the door to the room under the stairs stayed closed. Anyway, Jim reflected, grimly, Blair probably wouldn’t be in much of a mood to deal with his existential crap tonight, given their earlier argument.

Fuck it. “It’s bullshit, is what it is,” he said out loud. “It was a bad dream. That’s all.”

A heavy sigh came from the living room. “Enqueri, you still have not learned to listen when the spirits speak?”

Jim’s heart thumped as he dialed up his sight. That voice... but it couldn’t be....

Incacha stood at the far end of the couch, framed by the balcony doors. 

“This... this is impossible,” Jim whispered hoarsely. “You’re dead. I saw you die.”

Nodding gravely, Incacha replied, “Yes.”

Jim leaned back against the counter, his knees suddenly weak, and ground his palms into his eyes in desperation. “It’s just a dream,” he said to himself. “It’s just a dream; you’re going to wake up, and everything is going to be normal again.”

But when he took his hands away Incacha was standing right next to him, and he flinched in surprise. “Goddammit, don’t sneak up on me that!” he snapped.

“We must go. We do not have much time.”

“No. Just... no. This is a dream, and I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Why do you not believe the evidence of your own senses?”

Jim rubbed his face wearily. “Because, for one thing, you’re speaking English.”

Incacha frowned. “I am not. I am speaking the language of my people. As are you.” He gripped Jim’s shoulder firmly. “Come. We have work to do.”

Blur. Then focus. 

“Fuck!” Jim erupted, “do I not even get a _say_ in this at—“

He stopped as he realized that they were at the PD, just outside the bullpen. People choked the hallway, dressed in ragged, stained clothing. Some were pacing, muttering to themselves; others sat, gazing blankly out into space or huddled into rough blankets. 

“But... but the strike ended,” Jim sputtered, confused. “Why are all these people still here?”

“Watch, Enqueri,” Incacha said, pointing towards one of the rooms at the end of the hall. 

And then he saw himself and Blair, facing each other over a table of sandwiches. Even if he hadn’t known what they were saying, he’d have been able to tell that they were arguing from their body language – tense, fists clenched, leaning in, voices low. He didn’t need to dial up his hearing; the words echoed in his ears, etched in his memory. 

_I thought we were friends._

_Right._

_It doesn’t read that way to me. It makes me sound like a coward._

_Well, that's the way you read it. You chose to be a sentinel. And the way that you deal with your fears, all of them, is based on that choice. Fear can be one of your greatest allies. Now, you can choose to bottle it up inside or we can work on it._

_After this?_

_So, what do you want to do? Just want to call it quits?_

Silence.

_Ah, maybe you're right. Maybe I've, uh...lost my objectivity. I'll tell you what -- I'd rather just be friends. So why don't I go destroy my notes? How about that?_

As Blair walked away, Incacha followed, and Jim went after him. They trailed Blair as he went into the bullpen and slumped down at his desk, watched as he pulled out the fabric-covered notebook and opened it, gently fingering the dissertation draft within.

“Hey, Sandy, what’s up?” Connor perched a hip on the side of Blair’s desk.

“Oh, nothing,” Blair said, listlessly, but he shut the notebook quickly. “You spot that croc yet?”

Connor rolled her eyes. “I’m leaving _that_ up to the experts, mate,” she said dryly. “The animal control guy is apparently here and on the job.” She nudged Blair with her toe. “So you and Ellison had a spat, eh?”

Blair shook his head. “It’s not a big deal. And how’d you hear that, anyway?”

“You’re the one with the anthropology degree - you should know that nothing travels faster than gossip. Especially in a police station.” She nudged him again. “Come on, spill. What are you two fighting about?”

Jim felt his gut clench. Sandburg was nothing if not susceptible to the charms of a beautiful woman. And on top of the fight they’d just had... Connor already thought he had psychic abilities; the idea of hyperactive senses wouldn’t be that outrageous to her. He wasn’t sure that Blair could pass up the opportunity to dissect him and his shortcomings to a sympathetic ear.

“Seriously, Megan, it wasn’t important,” Blair replied, giving her a determined look. “Just a little misunderstanding.” 

Connor slid into the chair next to Blair’s desk with a heavy sigh. “How do you work with him, Sandy, honestly?” she asked. “He’s such an ass!”

Blair chuckled, shaking his head. “You two... you’re like oil and vinegar, you know that? Or maybe more like oil and fire – once one of you gets going, the other just adds fuel to the pyre.”

“It’s not just me,” Connor protested. “He’s rude to you, too – always ordering you around, telling you to stay put, call for backup. You’re supposed to be his partner, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but... most of the time, he’s right. I’m not a trained cop, I don’t have a gun. I’m a distraction to him in a firefight – he’s got to worry about whether I’m okay in addition to everything else. He really doesn’t need that.” Blair smiled ruefully. “Even though I do seem to end up in the middle of things more often than not.”

“I should have known you’d stick up for him,” Connor replied, her voice laced with disappointment.

“I’m not just saying this because Jim is my friend, okay?” Blair’s face and voice softened. “Look, I know you two got off on the wrong foot, but Jim is... well, he’s a damn good detective. And he’s one of the best people I’ve ever had the privilege to know. He’s honest, and loyal, and he’d do anything for his friends. Remind me to tell you about our trip to Peru sometime.”

In the face of Connor’s clearly skeptical look, Blair continued doggedly.

“He’s generous, and kind-hearted – oh, I know he hides it well, but underneath all that he’s pretty much a total softie. And he’s been there for me, more times than I can count – even when I’ve done some pretty stupid stuff.”

“Oh, like he’s there for you now?” Connor said acidly.

“I told you, this... this is just a misunderstanding. We’ll work it out.”

“Jeez, Sandy, you sound like you’re in love with him.”

“I do love Jim,” Blair said, earnestly, then rolled his eyes at Connor’s raised eyebrow. “Not like _that_ , Megan. Man, get your mind out of the gutter. It’s not always about sex.” He splayed his hands out on the notebook and gazed at them, a serious expression on his face. “Jim’s just a really good person, you know? And I’m... I’m a better man for knowing him.”

Jim thought that there was no way he could feel more like a heel, until the bullpen blurred around him and he found himself back in the kitchen, facing Incacha’s reproachful stare. “What?” he said, defensively.

“Why do you not trust your Guide, Enqueri?”

“He’s... he’s just a kid! He doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time – he puts on a good show, but I know he’s pulling things out of his ass—“

“Do you think I would pass on the way of the shaman to one whom I did not think was able to follow it?”

“No, of course not – it’s just....” There were more excuses, ready on the tip of his tongue, but Jim let them die when he saw the look on Incacha’s face. He took a deep breath and stared at his feet. “You’re right. I... I just... I’ve let him get close, closer than I’ve let anyone in a long time.” He glanced over at Incacha. “Even you. I’ve told him things, personal things, about my history, my family... it’s not just about the senses for me. But I... I....”

“You are afraid.”

“Yeah.” His father’s voice echoed in his head: _Never depend on anyone, Jimmy... they’ll let you down when you need them the most._ Fear-based life choices. God, maybe he’d been so angry at Blair because Blair had been right. 

“You must trust your Guide, Enqueri.” Incacha was standing in front of him now, gazing intently into his eyes. “Trouble is coming. The two of you must be of one mind, one heart, if you both are to survive it.”

“What do you mean? What kind of trouble?” Jim asked. But Incacha was gone and he was alone in the loft.

Jim scrubbed his hand over his face. He was exhausted. This was all too much to take in. First a visit from his mother’s spirit, then his dead teacher and shaman, trying to tell him... what? He didn’t want to think about it anymore, he just wanted to go to sleep. Maybe it would all make sense when he talked about it with Blair in the morning.

He headed for the stairs to his bedroom, only to have a dark figure block his way. 

“What the hell?” Jim recoiled in shock. 

The figure was wearing a long, hooded robe that hid its features and body completely. The fabric hung like it was wet, and Jim’s nose twitched as he detected a harsh, chemical smell under the odor of rot and damp. The smell was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

The thing – whatever it was – held out its hand in an unmistakable demand. Jim swallowed, then gingerly took the proffered hand. It was ice-cold and bloated, the skin mottled and clammy, the fingernails blue, and he fought down a wave of nausea as the room blurred around him.

They were in front of a large, sprawling building. The sun was shining, but there was a crisp bite to the air that told Jim that it was late fall or early winter. He turned on his heel, looking around. The grounds were well-tended and the building seemed fairly new. Nothing looked familiar, though. He was pretty sure he’d never been here before.

He was about to ask the silent figure next to him what was going on when he saw a car drive up and park in front of the door. Joel and Simon got out and trudged up the stairs, their faces grim. Curious, Jim followed, glancing behind to see that the thing was following him.

After signing in at the desk and receiving visitor’s passes, Joel and Simon were let in through a pair of locked doors. Jim hesitated, but the creature clamped his shoulder in an icy grip and they passed through as if the doors were made of smoke. His boss and his co-worker were nowhere to be seen, but the only way to go was forward, down a long hall that ended in a large, cavernous room.

Joel and Simon were there, on either side of a man with graying hair who sat, slumped, in a wheelchair, staring out the window at the grounds. Joel was sitting down, his hand on the man’s arm, while Simon was standing, watching Joel and the man with an unhappy expression on his face. 

“...and the PD did the holiday celebration at Cascade Children’s Hospital today,” Joel was saying, a smile on his face. “You should have seen Simon – he made a great Santa.” He glanced up at Simon. “Although, if he keeps eating those pineapple danish, next year he’s not going to need the belly.”

Simon snorted and rolled his eyes.

“We haven’t heard from too many of the old crew,” Joel continued. “Megan’s back in Australia, of course. Rafe couldn’t make it to the hospital today – Homicide’s been kind of busy lately. ‘Tis the season, you know?” 

Clearing his throat, Simon added, “We got a postcard from H.”

“Oh, that’s right, we did.” Joel was still smiling, but now it was tinged with melancholy. “He sends his best to everyone, says being a bartender on the beach in Florida is just as much fun as it sounds and he doesn’t miss police work at all.”

Jim frowned. This didn’t make any sense. What was Rafe doing in Homicide? Or H tending bar in Florida? The only thing that came close to being consistent was that Megan was in Australia – except that she hadn’t been there today; she’d been in the bullpen, pissing him off, as usual. 

He turned to the cloaked figure at his side. “What’s going on here? Is this some kind of weird alternate universe or something? And who the hell are they talking to?”

The creature didn’t reply.

Unease prickled across the back of his neck, and he tuned back into what Joel was saying.

“...after years or even decades, and they report that they could hear things, feel things, even see things sometimes. So, yeah, Simon, I do think it helps, and I’m not going to stop doing it.”

Simon exhaled heavily and rubbed his fingers across his forehead. “I’m not saying you should stop, Joel, it’s just... it’s been well over a year, now, and—”

But he was interrupted by a nurse striding into the room, calling out in a cheerful, bright voice, “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but it’s time for Mr. Ellison’s physical therapy.”

The prickle became a chill as Jim struggled to process her words. Mr. Ellison? What was his father doing in this place? More importantly, why were Joel and Simon visiting his father? And where was he?

“Okay, buddy, we gotta go.” Joel patted the man’s arm gently and stood. “We’ll see you next week, though.”

The nurse grasped the handles of the wheelchair and turned it, and Jim experienced a jolt of pure, visceral terror.

The man in the wheelchair was him.

Body bent, limbs wasted, eyes staring blankly at nothing, a thin line of drool running down from one corner of his mouth, but it was him. Unmistakably him. 

Head spinning, he strode over to where Simon and Joel were still standing, watching him get wheeled out. “What happened to me?” he demanded.

“I really miss him sometimes,” Joel said, his voice heavy with sorrow.

“Yeah, I know,” Simon murmured, “I do, too.”

“I wish Sandburg hadn’t—”

“Yeah.”

“Hadn’t what?” Jim shouted. “You wish he hadn’t what? What happened to me? What happened to Blair?”

Simon took a deep breath, then reached over and slung an arm over Joel’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s go home,” he said. “Maybe we can stop off for a beer somewhere.”

The two men headed for the exit, walking through Jim as if he wasn’t there.

Jim spun, fear and anger like a stone in his chest, and stalked over to his silent companion, grasping it by the shoulders. “What happened?” he roared. “Where’s Blair? Goddammit, give me some answers, or—”

The room blurred, and then it was dark. And cold.

Jim glanced around. They were in a graveyard.

The wool of the creature’s robe was sodden under his fingers, and Jim was hit again by that awful stench, the smell of death and decay and dankness. “I want some answers,” he snapped. “Is this supposed to be the future? My future?”

The figure didn’t reply, but pointed to one of the gravestones.

Jim let go of the creature and took a step towards the grave. Icy fingers danced down his spine and he hesitated. “Is this me? Is this my death you’re making me look at?”

The thing remained still, one pale finger pointing at the stone.

He dialed up his sight; even so, it was so dark that he had to lean close to read what was engraved there. 

_Blair Sandburg, born May 24, 1969, died May 20th, 1999_

“No,” Jim breathed. He surged to his feet, backing away from the grave. “No.” He turned on the hooded, silent figure. “You’re supposed to help me, dammit! You’re supposed to tell me what happened so I can prevent it. Not just show me something I can’t do anything about!”

No reply. The figure stood motionless, its silence a grim rebuke.

“Screw you,” Jim snarled. “I’ve had it with this whole little game.” He strode forward and pushed the creature’s hood back. “Let’s see who you—” But his question was cut off when shock stole the breath from his lungs.

It was Blair. 

He was nearly unrecognizable. His skin was livid, his features distorted and puffy. His eyes were covered by a pale, milky film. His dark hair hung in dripping snarls and clumps, and his lips were blue. And the smell – now Jim could place that chemical odor, the one he could detect underneath all the mold and putrescence. 

Chlorine.

No!” Jim screamed, and sat bolt upright in bed. He looked around, gasping, his breath harsh in his own ears, and slowly realized that he was back in his bedroom in the loft.

A door slammed open downstairs and he heard feet pounding up the steps. “Jim! Jim, are you okay?”

Before he even realized what he was doing he was off the bed and across the room, and had wrapped Blair in a tight embrace. Blair made a surprised noise, and then his arms came around Jim, returning the hug. After a few minutes he started patting Jim’s back lightly and talking in a calm, soothing voice.

Jim couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. He let the smooth, full tones flow over him as he inhaled deeply, filling his nose with Blair’s scent, warm and herbal and slightly smoky, dry and clean and without any chemical trace at all. Blair’s body was firm and pliant against his, not stiff and bloated, and his skin was flushed and warm. Jim drank him in through every sense, basking in a Blair that was alive and whole, not dead and drowned. 

When he pulled away slightly, Blair peered up at him with that clear dark blue gaze. “So... uh... you’re not mad about the testing thing anymore?” he asked.

It took Jim a moment to remember what they had been fighting about before this whole evening began, and then he shook his head impatiently. “No. But there’s something important I have to tell you.”

“Did you have a bad dream or something?” Blair asked, as Jim took his hand and pulled him over to sit on the side of his bed.

“Or something,” Jim replied. He sat down next to Blair and took Blair’s hands in his. Warm, strong hands, rosy skin, fingernails slightly pink, still smelling faintly of the hamburgers he’d cooked that evening...

“Jim? You’re, uh... you’re kinda freaking me out, here. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Sorry.” Jim pushed the memory of dead Blair out of his head and tried to focus. “I’m sorry I read your dissertation—”

“Jim, we’ve already been through that. It’s okay, you apologized—”

“Just let me finish, okay?” Jim glared at him.

Blair nodded.

“I... I have a lot of... issues... with trusting people....”

Blair rolled his eyes. “No, really?”

“Sandburg....” Jim growled.

“Sorry,” Blair muttered.

“...and I think I understand why, now – I think it has a lot to do with some things that happened in my childhood....”

Blair perked up at that.

Jim sighed. “...and, yes, we can talk about that sometime, but what I wanted to tell you is that I _do_ trust you – you’re my Guide, but, more importantly, you’re my best friend, no, more like family, really, and, and I know I don’t always act like it, but I get... worried... sometimes – I think you were right about that making life choices based on fear thing....”

Blair perked up some more.

Jim stifled a bigger sigh. “and, _yes_ , we can talk about _that_ sometime, too, but... but what I really wanted to tell you is that I know it’s not just the senses that you care about, it’s me, and I know that you wouldn’t do anything to hurt me on purpose, and I love you, too, in a purely platonic way, of course....”

If Blair perked up any more, Jim thought, he’d be levitating off the bed.

“...so I’m turning over a new leaf, as of today. No more distrust, no more assuming the worst. This is a new Jim Ellison you’re looking at.”

Blair just stared at him, a slightly bemused expression on his face. “That must have been a hell of a dream,” he said, after a while.

“You have no idea,” Jim said, with heartfelt sincerity.

“So... not to doubt you, or anything, but we probably still need to talk about this dissertation thing.”

“That’s fine, Chief,” Jim said, feeling expansive now that he’d gotten everything off his chest. “We can talk about that. Oh, and let’s do something for Christmas. I still gotta work, but we can do something together in the evening.”

“Ooh, like maybe have a nice dinner.” Blair’s eyes were gleaming. “We could get a Tofurkey.”

Jim fought to keep his smile. “Sure, if that’s what you—”

“I’m kidding, man, kidding,” Blair said, laughing. “But I appreciate the effort. Oh, my God, the look on your face... you were trying so hard not to look totally disgusted.”

There was no answer to that, so Jim roped Blair in for a noogie that somehow got turned into another hug.

“Hey, you want some hot chocolate?” Blair asked as he extricated himself. “I’m feeling kind of wired, now. I can’t go back to sleep yet.”

“Sure, sounds good.”

As they headed down the stairs Blair looked up at him and asked, “So, what do you want for Christmas, Jim?”

He couldn’t really think of anything. Thanks to the night’s experiences, he felt like he had everything he needed. “Peace on earth, good will towards men?” he said.

“God bless us everyone?” Blair countered.

“Something like that,” Jim agreed, smiling.


End file.
